His Corrupted Vow of Rosemary
For five years, I was the ghostwriter for my celebrity chef boyfriend. And for the fifth time, Caleb Blackwood credited a new season's menu to someone else.
He placated me, as always, with the blueprint of our future restaurant. "Clara, think long-term," he'd say. "Just a little longer. Once the funding comes through, once we get our three Michelin stars, I promise. The very next project, you'll be the Executive Chef."
At twenty-one, I was a fool, willing to bet my future on him. Now, at twenty-eight, years of waiting and endless recipe development have whittled away all the love and courage I once possessed.
I closed my recipe notebook, surrendering my dream of becoming a top chef in New York City. And I surrendered him, too.
C Caleb, I’m done waiting.